


What We're Made Of

by evienne



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Family, Four Times, Gen, Hair Dye, Pre-Movie, Riots, Siblings, Twins, non-graphic animal abuse, slice of life-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evienne/pseuds/evienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times the Maximoff twins were there for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We're Made Of

**Author's Note:**

> The ages are a guess for the moment. Anybody who knows better what age the twins were by the time they volunteered for experimentation is more than welcome to let me know! (Based on movie-canon only; maybe the tie-in comic totally contradicts this?)

They are ten years old.

The park across from their building is filled with teenage boys tying down a black kitten.

The tiny thing is hissing and spitting in the middle of its circle of tormentors, all the fur on the white spot at the back of its neck standing straight up, but it is a poor attempt at intimidation that only seems to goad the boys on. Wanda watches in fascinated horror as one of the boys pours something that smells strongly from a can over its body and another advances with a lighter.  

“ _Don’t!_ ”

It’s a moment before she realises that the shriek came from her own throat. It doesn’t matter: nobody takes any notice. She flings herself at the one who holds the lighter, knocking it from his hand. He spits a swearword and grabs her wrist in a grip that hurts—she bites his fingers with all her strength—

Then Pietro hurls himself into the middle of the fight with a furious yell, tearing the boy away from Wanda. The next few moments are a whirlwind to Wanda later—she only knows that at last they are left alone, that her face and fists feel sore, and that the tooth which was loose is now missing.

“Are you hurt?” Pietro demands. He has the beginnings of a fine black eye, but apart from that he doesn’t look too badly injured either. They have been lucky, then. The boys must have been unwilling to put the same effort into hurting children that they did for an animal.

“No,” Wanda says, already looking around for the kitten. It’s within reach, still drenched and writhing in its bonds.

They cut it free with Pietro’s new pocket knife, a proceeding that drives it into a new frenzy of terror. Wanda endures the sting of kerosene in scratches that rapidly number into the dozens while Pietro fetches water and rags to try wipe the kitten clean. It wriggles free in the middle of their efforts and flees into a bush. Wanda is disappointed, and surprised at herself for it. 

“Could have said thank you,” Pietro mumbles without ire. He puts an arm around Wanda’s shoulders and leads her home to meet their mother’s dismay.

It is not, however, the last they see of it. A week later, after they have been winched down from the building that now marks their parents’ grave, starving and exhausted by terror, Wanda’s tear-sore eyes spy a small furred body lying beneath a brick, the white spot on the neck plain to see. She catches Pietro’s eye and he stares back at her, stony-faced.

By far, it is the smallest of the things that Tony Stark has taken from them. But they hate him so much the harder for it.

 

* * *

 

They are fifteen years old.

Today is the second time Wanda has seen a riot end with compatriots shot to death in the street.    

Pietro sent her home, staying behind himself to help bury the bodies. Wanda did not argue much. The riots always leave her feeling drained even when nobody is harmed—powerful human emotion has always affected her strongly. She knows Pietro worries about it, because he can't understand it: he is passionate in his love for their country, none more so, but patriotic fervour is quite a different thing compared with the utter immersion Wanda experiences. Sometimes it is so intense that she believes she can nearly _feel_ what others do—their joys, their terrors, their agony when a bullet finds its mark…

She crawls into bed without washing or changing, limbs feeling heavy, hair dense with the scent of smoke. She will regret it in the morning, when the sheets smell foul and she recalls she has no means of washing them easily, but for now all she wants is sleep—plenty of it.

The room is dark when she is woken by a weight descending in the region of her knees.

“Are you asleep?” Pietro’s voice asks.

“Yes,” she mumbles. “You have a bed of your own.”

Pietro’s weight shifts, but only slightly. She hears the striking of a match next and blinks her eyes open, mouth opening to say something cross, but Pietro is lighting a long taper candle stuck into a large battered pastry frosted with white and sprinkled with almonds. It’s the sort that was Wanda’s favourite when their lives were softer. By the flickering candlelight, she sees her brother’s grimy face relax into a smile.

“I knew you would forget,” he says.

Wanda is full awake in a moment, scrambling upright. The hands on the clock mark a few minutes past midnight. She looks from him to the pastry and back again, guilt spiking within her because she would not have remembered in the morning either. From the look on his face, Pietro knows it. Equally from the look on his face, Wanda sees he doesn't care. “I…have nothing for you.”

“It’s all right.” He tears the pastry in half, then pulls out the candle and snaps it in the middle. “There,” he says in satisfaction as he puts one half before her and the other before him, relighting the candles. “I covered for you, as always.”

Tired as she is, the smile comes easily. “You are such a child.”

He gives her a look of great long-suffering. “Twelve minutes older, I wish you’d remem—”

“Don’t waste your wish,” she cuts him off.

“No, of course,” he agrees. Now the jocularity slips away, little by little, leaving only weariness behind.

Wanda crawls over to sit beside him, shoulders pressing together, and slides her fingers around his. Pietro is better at hiding his feelings than most people she has met, but he is never a mystery to her. “You’ve had a hard evening.”

He leans his head back against the wall, eyes closing. “Yes.”

She squeezes his hand, wishing there was something further she could do. But this is always enough for her, and after another moment it is enough for Pietro, too. He opens his eyes and picks up his half of the cake.

“Another year,” he says.

“We’ll be stronger by the end of it,” Wanda promises him, squeezing his hand a little tighter, and together they blow out their candles.

 

* * *

 

They are eighteen years old.

For some reason Pietro has brought home a bottle of cheap store hair bleach along with their food.  

“They’re starting to single me out when the riots break,” he explains while he runs his head beneath the tap. “If I look a little different, perhaps it will take them longer next time.”

“Perhaps,” Wanda says dubiously.

“I wouldn’t worry for myself, but you’re always so nearby. You are very breakable, _sestrica_.”  

She hugs her knees, resting her chin on them. “Less breakable than I look.”

“Breakable enough,” Pietro says and Wanda does not contradict him. She can’t deny that sometimes the urgent violence at the riots is frightening, how aware she is that if once she fell she might be trampled and never rise again. Besides, Pietro is right—they have made themselves obvious by now, and Pietro’s height and physique makes him easy to recognise again. Probably a head of peroxide won't make any difference, but it is worth a try.

Pietro rubs his head roughly dry with a towel and breaks open the package. He tosses the gloves that came with the bleach aside and inexpertly begins to slather the dye over his head. Wanda watches him.

“Shake it first, otherwise it won’t colour evenly.”

Pietro obeys without remembering to cap the bottle first. Bleach splashes everywhere. Wanda pinches her nose and gets to her feet.

"You're ruining the clothes I found you," she scolds. "Sit down."

“I should have thought you'd worry more about spoiling yours,” Pietro says, but lets her press him down into a chair while he wipes his hands on the towel she drapes over his shoulders.

“Why, because I'm a girl? You're twice as vain as I am.”

“Because black would show the marks so much worse,” he returns and grins when she slaps his head lightly with a gloved hand.

The smell of bleach is powerful in the small room as Wanda works the mixture through Pietro's damp hair with both hands. Unbidden, she recalls the feel of fingers in her own hair, gently brushing and braiding, the sound of a long-silenced voice. She pushes the memory away and returns her attention to Pietro's brown mop. It's already looking a little lighter. “Is the plan to look like a fugitive from a German boy band?” she asks.

"There are fugitives from German boy bands?"

She ignores him. "I mean you will look absurd."

"Impossible."

“Then you perform the impossible every day,” she retorts, but lets affection colour her voice.

Pietro pouts up at her. “You don’t appreciate me as you ought. Don’t girls tease their brothers for such an opportunity as this? Perhaps I will even let you paint my nails next.”  

“I am overwhelmed,” Wanda says dryly. She runs a hand over his head one final time and strips off the gloves. “Wait fifteen minutes and then wash it off.”

Half an hour later, Pietro emerges from their tiny bathroom in clean clothes with his newly bright head. Wanda glances up from where she has curled up on their sole chair, the radio telling its ever-old tale beside her head.

“I was right. You do look ridiculous.”

“Nonsense.” Pietro, unoffended, admires his reflection in the little mirror. Wanda returns her attention to the radio. “You’ll see. You’ll be falling over the bodies of swooning women everywhere.”

“Don’t you think we fall over enough bodies as things are?” Wanda murmurs without thinking. She wants to catch the words back the moment she says them, but it’s too late: Pietro’s expression is sobering and instantly Wanda detests herself a little for robbing him of this small moment of levity. She switches off the radio. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

But there is no blame in Pietro’s face as he leaves the mirror to take her gently by the shoulder. “Courage, Wanda. It’ll be different one day,” he tells her earnestly, with such belief in his voice that Wanda has no choice but to believe it too. “We are meant for more.”

She puts up her hand to his for a moment, terribly grateful for him.

"I suppose," she says at last, "that you could look worse." 

 

* * *

 

They are twenty-one years old.

Wanda knows that Pietro can’t take much more today.

They have both exceeded all expectations—have done so from the first month of experimentation. And yet every day more is required of them. Wanda spent six months with a constant throbbing headache, every night interrupted by any nightmare experienced by another person within her rapidly expanding range. It might have broken her altogether if not for Pietro, who never complained as he sacrificed the rest he needed so badly himself to soothe her through them and give her a few minutes more of peace. She has better control now, but Pietro remains an anchoring presence at the back of her mind at every moment.

Today she is watching him navigate an obstacle course, which is nothing new. But this one is more challenging than any before, equipped with mechanised opponents around every corner which Pietro must destroy before progressing. He does the course once, twice, three times—always falling short of the impossible time target he has been set. Doctor List is relentless (“ _again_ , _faster, again_ ”), ignoring Pietro’s pale face and heaving shoulders until he collapses to the ground in a limp heap. Wanda is on her feet and at his side a moment later, gathering her brother’s head into her lap with infinite tenderness while she trembles with rage.

“ _Enough_ ,” she bites out, casting a broad shield that cuts them off from the scientists. Pietro is conscious, but barely so, breath coming in hoarse, rapid gasps, like he is drowning in air. “He is done for today.”

List looks irritated, but he knows better now than to argue with her when she is angry. She gets her way, but only this time. Never again, Wanda knows, will she be permitted to watch Pietro train. The door slides shut between them a moment later.

“We asked for this, you know,” Pietro murmurs when he has breath enough to speak. “They’re only making us stronger.”

“Not like this.”

“I’m fine.”  

“Don’t tell lies. In fact, don’t talk at all.” She curls her fingers, feeling the tingle of her power dancing at their tips. “Will you let me?”    

He nods, closing his eyes. Wanda draws on every happy memory they’ve ever shared and pours it into him. When she runs out of them, she invents more. The room is filled with the scent of new baking, the whizz of snowballs through the air, the twinkle of candles. Pietro relaxes underneath her influence, breaths quieting gradually until they normalise. Wanda holds the spell a few more moments and then dissipates it. Pietro sits up a minute later.

“Thank you,” he says. “But you probably should not have done it.”

"And you wouldn't have?"

“That’s not at all the same thing,” Pietro admonishes. He gets to his feet. "Hm." Hands on his hips, his focus already returned to the task, he surveys the course again. Wanda, seeing he is not to be dissuaded, steps up behind him.

“You lose most time here,” she says over his shoulder, indicating a corner.

“I know. There are too many of them. I can’t…” he trails off and looks at her thoughtfully. “You’re strong enough to tear one apart now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Wanda says, seeing where his mind is heading. “But it wouldn’t really help, I can’t move fast enough to—”

“I’ll carry you,” he interrupts. “I’ll only lose a little more time with the extra weight. We’ll more than make it up working together.”

Ten minutes later, they’ve halved his time and destroyed the course for good. Pietro is barely breaking a sweat as he skids to a halt and slams a hand on the stopwatch, grinning.

“You are pleased?” Wanda asks, smiling herself as Pietro kisses her forehead with a gleeful congratulatory  _smack_ and sets her on her feet.  

"Aren't you?" 

Her smile grows into a rather feral-feeling grin. They will certainly be allowed to train together now. "I think we can do better still."


End file.
